Rainy Days in the Tent
I woke up late in the morning to the rhythmic sound of rain drumming against the canvas of our small igloo tent. The air inside was heavy and humid, carrying the musky, intoxicating scent of the previous night’s passion. It was a scent that stirred something primal within me, a deep craving that made me look at my cousin with renewed hunger. He was still asleep, lying on his back, looking like a modern-day Adonis.
I spent a few moments simply admiring him. He had a youthful face—dark, thick lashes framing sleepy eyes and a soft, budding mustache—that contrasted sharply with his robust, athletic physique. His chest was broad and smooth, his abdomen flat, and his arms possessed a strength that I found utterly captivating. As my gaze traveled lower, I saw him fully aroused even in sleep, a testament to the chemistry that burned between us.
The rain eventually slowed, but the heat between us only intensified. I shifted closer, my skin brushing against his, feeling the electric spark of contact. He stirred, a low groan escaping his lips as he opened his eyes. The moment our gazes locked, the world outside the tent ceased to exist. There was only the sound of our breathing and the desperate need to lose ourselves in each other once more.